


hyá lanta lassë (a leaf falls)

by Mertiya



Series: The Hand of the Mighty [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Do not look for any scrap of decency in fëanor in this one, M/M, Mairon and Melkor's relationship isn't always healthy but they're Trying, Self-Hatred, Silmarils, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whump, let's take Tolkien and inject a healthy amount of moral ambiguity directly into the text, this ones PRETTY sympathetic to mairon and melkor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: Mairon is captured by Fëanor during Dagor-nuin-Giliath, and the course of events in Middle Earth is irretrievably altered.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: The Hand of the Mighty [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858411
Comments: 8
Kudos: 77





	hyá lanta lassë (a leaf falls)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hello everyone. Don't worry, Ring-bound is still going to update regularly, but here, have Yet Another tolkien-verse. Do you know six months ago I said I couldn't possibly ever write a fanfic of Tolkien, I loved reading other people's but I just didn't think I could do it? Haha. Haha. Whoops.

_N·alalmino hyá lanta lasse  
..._

_  
Ai lindórea Lasselanta  
Nierme mintya náre qanta._

_( From the elm-tree here a leaf falls,  
...  
  
Oh! with singing at dawn Fall  
reminds me that it is filled with grief. )_

**-J.R.R. Tolkien, Narqelion, 1915**

“My lord, our forces are routed and retreating across Ard-galen.” 

Mairon saw a muscle twitch in Melkor’s jaw, and his temper, even less well contained than usual, flamed to life. He stood, slamming both hands down on the heavy stone table and directing his wrath at the unfortunate Orc captain. “How hast thou allowed these Children of Ilúvatar to triumph, stripped as they are of Valinor’s favor?”

The Orc bowed his head. “They fight fiercely, Lieutenant Mairon, but I can offer no excuse for our failure.”

Mairon’s shoulder twinged with pain, and a soft prickling of sensation ran through his right arm. It had been sluggish ever since their battle with Ungoliant, when it had been struck by a stray few droplets of her venom, but he had no time for such minor concerns. He would not allow anyone else to threaten his lord and master, ever again, not while his fëa remained bound to an earthly form. “Gothmog,” he snapped. “My armor. I will lead our forces against them.”

The balrog’s craggy face tightened imperceptibly. “Mairon—” He paused at the glare that Mairon flashed him. “Ah—my _lord_ Mairon, are you sure this is a wise course of action?”

Those words Mairon wished he could have heard from Melkor, who only sat still in his black throne, turning over and over in his hands the velvet pouch containing the Silmarils, but it was no matter. Mairon had failed his lord once. Perhaps he had not yet earned back his trust. But he would. And even if he did not, he would never cease caring for him. “My _armor_ , balrog,” he said, tightly. Gothmog opened his mouth again as if he were readying himself to disagree again, but he glanced quickly over to Melkor and back to Mairon, and then—to Mairon’s secret relief—bowed his head. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

~

A cold wind was rising as the troops rode out. Mairon, at their head, wore no helm, for he was determined to be a symbol to rally them. His long, red-gold hair made for an effective banner, and he knew how it caught the starlight gleaming in it. Simpler than using a standard bearer, and it did not take up the use of his sword arm.

He was tempted to look back, to see whether Melkor’s gaze followed him, but he resisted. It would not do to show anything to his troops that might seem like weakness. They needed as much morale as possible, for the fact that the Elves had been able to turn back the army at Ard-galen bespoke a dangerous enemy. Thuringwethil and Yaghed, who had been leading the armies, were both fearsome warriors.

“Forces of Angband!” he called, instead of looking back, instead of giving into the temptation to rotate his stiff arm, “We ride to rescue our brothers and sisters in arms! We will not bow before the Elves! We will protect what is ours!” _I will keep my master safe. I will never let him go again._

The Orcs and balrogs and other dark creatures roared in answer. Mairon tightened his fingers in the fur of the tremendous wolf beneath him, and it reared back, howling as well. He called flame from the earth beneath him, and it rose to answer him, fountains of fire streaming up around him, showing its uncontained fury in a way he rarely asked of it. He preferred the order and containment of the forge, but here was a display that had to be made, to demonstrate the raw destructive power they could wield. Ignoring the way the ache in his arm intensified, Mairon rode.

They rode hard and reached Ard-galen as the winds were changing. In the pale starlight, they could see the weary, retreating troops; beyond them, blazing with light, were the Noldor of Valinor. High above wheeled an enormous bat, but her bloodcurdling screams did little to instill fear in the hearts of the Elves. Mairon raised his sword again, raised the fire again, and yelled out a challenge. Then he rode down the waves of grass with the rest of the reinforcements. Above him, he heard Thuringwethil’s glad cry; she swooped down and called out, “Our lord has come to our aid!” and—though Mairon’s heart constricted at still being referred to that way—he saw the struggling troops rally, turning and interlocking shields and spears against the invaders.

Then his troops were upon them as well, crashing into their flank like a dark flood against a shining mere. Mairon threw himself into the battle with ferocity, his fiery sword flashing up and down as rapidly as if he were working with a hammer at the forge. He felled Elf after Elf, but still there were more and more, and the pain of his arm was growing steadily. It was enough. It would be enough. Slowly, their forces were rallying—slowly, the forces of the Noldor were being beaten back. With a cry of “ _Melkor_!” he called the flames again, and they erupted from beneath the earth, sending the nearby Elves scattering with screams of pain and fear.

“Halt! Sauron the Abhorred! I challenge thee to single combat!”

The Elf who strode forward was as fair as any Mairon had ever seen, tall and almost as powerful-looking as a Maia.

“Thou art losing, little elf,” rumbled Gothmog, stepping in front of Mairon. “Why should our lord deign to cross sword with thee?”

“Art thou so craven?” the Elf demanded. “I am Fëanáro of the Noldor, and I would cross blades with thee, Sauron, Lieutenant of Angband!”

“Gothmog. Stand back,” Mairon said tightly. He would not be seen as craven. Not when Melkor waited for him. He would triumph here, and it would save the lives of their soldiers. An important resource consideration. “Very well, Fëanáro of the Noldor, I accept thy challenge.”

“ _Mairon_ ,” Gothmog hissed in his ear as he dismounted, grabbing his shoulder. “You’re injured. At least allow me to fight in your stead.”

Mairon shook him off. “This is my fight. I fight for my lord. I fight for my people. I can _do_ this.”

The two armies formed a ring around them on the high hilltop in the sea-green grass beneath the cold pale starlight of Arda. A wind laden with the scent of ash and new growth wound around them, catching in Mairon’s hair and swirling it backward as he raised his sword and regarded his challenger. “Come, then,” he said softly, and the rumble in the earth beneath him echoed his words.

Fëanáro attacked swiftly and powerfully; rather than engage immediately, Mairon danced away and avoided his heavy sword swing. The light armor that he had crafted himself made his motions easy and fluid, but he was surprised when Fëanáro turned on a dime, his second attack very nearly impacting Mairon’s unguarded side. With a mere hair’s breadth of clearance, Mairon avoided it, starting to realize that this fight might be more difficult than he had assumed. Fëanáro's gleaming armor was of excellent craftsmanship as well, and he had a few inches more reach than Mairon, and his movements—were only a hair slower. Mairon’s own reflexes seemed sluggish. He was wearier than he had realized, and there was an awful, cold ache in his sword arm. But he was still the favored of Melkor, still the most powerful of the Maia. No mere Elf could fell him.

They circled each other warily. The onlookers watched in silence. This time, Mairon took the offensive, feinting a stab at Fëanáro's chest and at the last minute redirecting into a blow against his upper thigh. Fëanáro caught it, knocking the sword aside and following up. The next few moments were a whirlwind of traded and glancing blows, and Mairon felt the sweat begin to run down his forehead, but there was a strange, icy cold threading through his shoulder joint.

Then Fëanáro sliced sideways and, instead of redirecting as Mairon had expected, he kept the momentum going, whirling in a full circle so that the sword was coming straight at Mairon’s face. It was a clumsy attack, a brute-force attack, but it was fast enough that Mairon had no choice but to block the strike with his own sword.

Metal rang on metal, and blinding pain consumed Mairon’s arm in a flash. He cried out, going to his knees. There was a soft thump beside him, and he realized he had dropped his sword, but he could not force his nerveless fingers to reach for it. His sword arm hung useless at his side. Horrified, he grabbed for the sword with his good arm, but before he could do more than catch at it, something struck him hard in the temple, and the world dissolved into sharp fragments and then into darkness.

~

Mairon’s world was pain. At first, his bewildered mind processed only that his arms were fixed over his head, and he thought he had fallen asleep at the foot of Melkor’s bed, that he would open his eyes and see his master waiting to undo him, to massage warmth back into his ice cold limbs, and to murmur about how well he had done. But he did not open his eyes to the soft, mossy walls of Utumno, or to the beautiful veined marble of Angband. Instead, he found he was looking up at the open sky, and his face was wet, with rain or tears, he didn’t know.

He groaned softly, unable to stop himself, with confusion and the desperate, aching arousal that always accompanied continuous pain. He was too weary for it, and the heat only pooled uncomfortably in his stomach, warring with the chilly stiffness of his arms, which were lashed above his head.

“So thou wake.” Somehow, Mairon lifted his head to meet the gaze of the Elf who had defeated him, and all his humiliation came rushing back. Sickness roiled in his stomach, and the sensation of his erection pressing against his soft leggings was suddenly horrifying. He shivered violently. Pinpricks of cold struck his shoulders and stomach, and he realized he was naked from the waist up, and it was snowing heavily. “Sauron the Cruel, in my hands. The mightiest of the Maiar.” 

A fey light glowed in Fëanáro's eyes. His smile seemed too wide for his face, and he backhanded Mairon, snapping his head to the side. Mairon gasped and cursed, the pain intermingling with arousal. How could his body react like this to someone who was not Melkor? But he was helpless to resist. He could only hope that the Elf would not _realize_.

Fëanáro leaned closer to him. “Thy troops name thee Morgoth’s lover,” he said, and Mairon’s eyes snapped open. _No, no, no, how—_ “They begged for thy return.” Mairon looked to the side, tears welling up in his eyes no matter how he tried to stop them. Stupid fools. Thuringwethil, probably—Gothmog would have known better.

Gathering up what remained of fluid in his dry mouth, he spat at the Elf. A useless gesture, and Fëanáro remained unperturbed. “I wonder what thy lord will pay for thy safe return?”

Nothing, Mairon thought, with a calm sort of hopelessness. He was of no use to his lord anymore. A failure. The Melkor he had first abandoned Valinor for might have considered it, but the Melkor who had returned from a long imprisonment was much changed. 

“Thou hast lost, Abhorrent One,” Fëanáro said simply. “Faithless creature.” He struck Mairon again, an effortless violence that would probably leave a mark high on Mairon’s cheekbone. A breathless noise was forced from Mairon’s mouth, something halfway between a gasp and a half-strangled moan. Shame twisted in his belly, but his traitorous erection twitched despite himself. Fëanáro's eyes flicked down his form, and he recoiled. “What kind of—I should have known thou wert a creature of true depravity.”

“Don’t touch me,” Mairon rasped. “Don’t—only Melkor—” He could have cut out his own tongue as soon the words spilled out of his lips. To have confirmed of his own voice what Fëanáro could not have known with surety. 

Fëanáro's lip curled at him. “Elves do not _violate_ others. We are not Orcs.” He turned and called to someone else. “Send word to Morgoth. Tell him I will return his lieutenant if he returns to me what he took from me.”

Time passed in a blur. Elves came and went. Fëanáro watched him, that same fey light in his eyes, that desperate greed that Mairon had seen reflected in Melkor’s eyes as well. He knew—he _knew_ that that ugly light would never let his master go. He no longer valued Mairon highly enough to barter for his safe return, and it was Mairon’s own failure that had brought him to this point, in any case.

Fëanáro set up a forge before the stake to which Mairon was bound. He smiled to himself as he forged a blade, catching starlight in it, catching the waver of water in its shining depths. It was breathtakingly, achingly beautiful. Mairon’s own aching arms itched to create his own weapon and bathe it in the blood of these enemies of his master. But there was no respite for him. There was no savior coming for him.

One of the messengers returned to Fëanáro's side and murmured something in his ear, and Mairon watched the dark anger flash across the Elf’s face. Melkor had refused him, as Mairon had known he would. “Cut him down,” Fëanáro ordered. “Bring him to me.”

When the ropes parted, Mairon dropped to the ground, but his muscles would not support him, and he plummeted face-first into the earth. Fëanáro's kinsfolk surrounded him, strong hands grabbing him and dragging him forward, and then he was forced onto his knees in front of Fëanáro, who looked at him coolly, consideringly.

“He is very beautiful,” he said. “A shame to mar that, but perhaps it will be enough to convince Morgoth to act.”

Mairon stared at him, uncomprehending. “What are you going to do?” he asked through a dry, painful throat.

“Hold him down,” Fëanáro said, his voice still frighteningly dispassionate. He raised the blade he had been forging, the flicker of starlight on water caught in it. “This should be sufficient to force even a Maia to retain the injuries inflicted.”

Hands on Mairon held him tightly, though he tried to struggle, cold fear pooling in his stomach, fear of that merciless blade, fear of what kind of magic Fëanáro had created in his wrath and untameable desire. Fëanáro watched him for a moment, and then he twisted a hand in Mairon’s long hair and dragged his head back. Mairon’s beautiful, flame-like hair—the hair that Melkor sank his hands into and called molten gold, that he used to manipulate Mairon about him when they were alone.

The blade kissed the top of Mairon’s head lightly; he barely felt it. But red-gold fell about him like leaves, in large swathes and coils. “What have you _done_?” he demanded.

“Perhaps I should be patient and see if this is sufficient to catch Morgoth’s attention,” Fëanáro said, ignoring him utterly. “But I find I do not want to be patient anymore.” He tested the blade against his thumb, and then he turned back to the elves holding Mairon. “Put his hand on the forge.”

Mairon felt the blood freeze in his veins as he realized what Fëanáro intended. “No,” he said wildly. “ _No_ , you cannot, you _cannot_ —I am a Maia, I am a master craftsman—”

“Thou art a traitor to Ilúvatar,” Fëanáro told him calmly. “ _Put his hand on the forge_.”

Crying out, Mairon desperately pulled himself backward, his muscles screaming as he fought against the elves. For an instant, his desperation was enough to overpower them, but the half instant of hope he felt was crushed when he could not keep it up and he was forced, spitting curses and pleas indiscriminately, to his knees, his hand pressed against the cooling iron of the anvil.

“No—”

Fëanáro raised the blade.

“ _No—”_

The blade flashed in the starlight.

_“Melkor—!”_

The blade fell. Mairon screamed.

~

Melkor gazed at the brilliant light of the gems that lay within the velvet cloth in his hand. They were beautiful, their cold white light sending thrumming pleasure through his entire fëa. He should have them set in a piece of jewelry to display their beauty more clearly. They deserved better than to lie in a scrap of velvet. Mairon could forge something for them. A crown. Yes. Only Mairon would have the necessary skill to create something beautiful enough to hold them. Vaguely, Melkor wondered where his lieutenant was. Surely he ought to have returned from the battle by now? Ah, well, it did not matter. Not when he held the Silmarils. Not when they were his, and his only.

There was an irritating noise. It had been going on for several minutes. “Go away!” Melkor called. He paused, fuzzily. “Send Mairon to deal with it!” An excellent idea. Mairon would make the noise go away.

“ _My lord Melkor_.” The noise this time was loud enough to force him to look up and see that Gothmog was slamming viciously on the open door. Thuringwethil’s dark head peered out from behind him.

“What?” Melkor demanded angrily. “Must I be bothered with every trifling detail necessary to make this fortress run smoothly? Is this not what my lieutenant is for?”

“YOUR LIEUTENANT IS CAPTURED,” Gothmog roared.

Melkor blinked. Some part of him suggested that he had known this already, but had filed it away as unimportant, beside the blazing glory of the stones that lay before him. Something deep inside him twinged slightly, but if Mairon had been so incompetent as to be taken captive by a ragtag group of Elves, there was no hope for him, was there? He stood up, slamming his uninjured hand into the table. “Then find me someone to take his place!”

Gothmog strode into the chamber, with Thuringwethil trailing nervously behind. In his arms he carried a small cloth bundle, from which emanated the stench of ash and rotting blood. As he reached Melkor—with shocking defiance that the Vala had never seen before in any of his balrogs, for there was only one Maia who had ever dared to disagree with him and he was no longer here—he flung the bundle down onto the stone table beside the Silmarils and snarled, “If you leave Mairon there any longer, I will take my troops and leave you to rot in this forsaken fortress!”

The bundle, loosely wrapped, split open from the force with which it was flung onto the table, and its contents spilled out. For a moment, Melkor thought he saw a stream of molten gold; then he realized that it was hair. It was—Mairon’s hair. He shook his head, his eyes going from the pile to the Silmarils. He had to make sure they were safe, for Gothmog in his fury had thrown the bundle so close it had nearly knocked the precious gems from the table.

There were flecks of dark on the glittering jewels. Melkor felt icy cold rage rising in his chest as he bent over them, mixing with sudden fear. But it was all right. It was only that they had been splashed with dark liquid—they could be cleaned. Yet somehow that realization did not calm him. The rage and fear were still there, twisting in his chest. Why was that?

The liquid had come from the other content of the bundle, which lay nestled in the hair, mottled white and purple against it. That was where the smell had come from. Somehow, Melkor tore his eyes away from the Silmarils to look at it. Dots of blood mottled the slim fingers, and there was a line of ugly bruising along the top. It was cold and white, and clinging to it was a shred, a scrap, of flame. It was not just a portion of a fana. There was ëala there as well, soul that had been cleaved away like flesh. He had watched that hand serve him for countless years, creating weapons of war and lovely trinkets, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, tightening in his as they played their bedroom games—as he sank his hands into the hair that surrounded it, bright and hot and soft and beautiful—

Melkor had never felt a sickness rise in him as this one did. It was as if there was a haze before his eyes—or as if a haze had cleared. He looked at the Silmarils again, but they seemed dim and cold, compared to the flame that lay guttering out before him, with the dots of blood marring their perfect surfaces.

“Gather my forces,” he heard his own voice tell Gothmog, cold as ice, for the ember that lay on the table was not enough to reignite his flame. “We ride to treat with the Elves.” Pause. “Or slaughter them. Whichever is necessary.”

~

Fëanáro's prisoner lay on the wet earth, his arms and legs bound, for they could not bind his hands. Not anymore. He did not know how long it had been. They had used fire to seal the injury, and it had been painful, in a distant kind of way. He had known as soon as the blade parted flesh and bone that whatever artifact Fëanáro had created, it would not allow him to simply reshape his form, even if he could have escaped. Which he could not do.

Above him, he watched the clouds mix and part, watched the starlight gleam and be swept away and remembered the Lamps of Arda. Their bright light had sung to the flame inside him, but they had been quenched by Melkor’s misguided wroth. Now the flame was quenched as well. He shut his eyes, but could not sleep.

Some time later, the Elves returned to him and cut his bonds, forcing him to his feet and then binding his arms again behind him. They tied a rope about his neck and made him walk. As he had no reason to fight, he did not, submitting to their rough treatment of him. Distantly, he was thankful that it was not so rough as to repeat the shameful response of his body before. Although that did not really matter either, anymore, for there was no longer anyone for to whom he was dedicated.

Fëanáro awaited him. “Your master is ready to talk,” he said. “Lucky you.”

The prisoner did not understand. He had no master. He had nothing. He was worthless. Fëanáro took the rope and led him to the top of a shallow hill, where he pressed the blade of the awful sword against his throat and so they waited. The touch of that metal was icy cold, and the prisoner knew that if it sliced through the flesh of his throat, it would kill him.

At the base of the hill gathered another army, flying the dark banner of Angband. And at its head stood an immense figure, clad in dark armor that the prisoner recognized, for he had forged it himself. But Melkor had not left Angband since he had returned from the fight with Ungoliant. Why would he? He had no need to.

“Morgoth!” shouted Fëanáro. “Take care! Should thou attempt to betray us or attack us, I will open thy servant’s throat!” The prisoner ground his teeth at the disrespect the elf was showing to his superior.

“Fëanáro—thou craven wretch!” snarled Melkor. “I should slaughter thee and all thy company for this cruelty!”

“Return to me what is mine,” Fëanáro returned. “And I shall return to thee what is thine.”

The prisoner could not understand what was happening. “No!” he called out, his voice sounding so strangely thin and hoarse. “I have failed you, Melkor!” Not his master. Never his master again, for he did not deserve that anymore. “I am happy to die for you!”

“Shut up, Mairon!” yelled a voice from above—Thuri. “You damn fool!”

“How can I trust that if I give thee thy desire thou wilt leave what is most precious to me?” Melkor demanded, as if no one else had spoken.

“How can _I_ trust that thou wilt allow us to leave unmolested?” retorted Fëanáro. “ _I_ am not the traitor here, Morgoth. Thou hast my word he will not be harmed.”

“He is already harmed,” growled Melkor.

“I warned thee,” Fëanáro returned coolly. “Hadst thou returned to me my gems when I first demanded them, he would have been returned likewise.”

There was a long pause. The prisoner waited. Surely now Melkor would rain his wrath upon the Elves, but nothing like that happened. There was only silence, and the swirling snow about them. Then Melkor raised his arm, as if with a great effort, and flung something into the air above his head, a little black bundle. Thuringwethil swooped down and caught it, winging her way up the hill towards the Elves, and then she let it drop, even as they swiveled their bows in her direction.

“There is thy prize,” gritted out Melkor. “Give Mairon to me. _Now_. Or I will kill every single elf on the hill. And I will do it very, very slowly.”

Fëanáro's eyes flicked to the packet. “Bring it to me,” he ordered another soldier. The elf hurriedly stooped and picked it up, bringing it over. “Open it but do not touch the contents.” She nodded and pulled back the cloth. White light spilled from inside it immediately, a soft refulgence that brought to mind once again the Lamps. The entire glade was illuminated. The Elves gasped collectively. The prisoner felt moisture begin to flow down his face. Fëanáro's eyebrows went up.

“Well, Morgoth, thou has spoken true, and I will not betray an oath,” he said softly. His mail-clad foot lodged in the small of the prisoner’s back and kicked him forward. The prisoner stumbled down the hill, not able to fight the pull of gravity and the violent shove he had been given. At the bottom, he tripped and fell. With his arms bound, he could not catch himself, and he gasped as the hard impact of the earth drove the air from his lungs.

“Mairon!” That was Gothmog’s voice. The prisoner whimpered and curled in on himself, shaking his head.

A foot landed in his field of vision; large hands pulled him up, and he was being lifted and cradled—gently. “Little Flame, what have they done to you?” 

~

Melkor was shocked at the appearance of the slight form in his arms. How long had it been since he looked at Mairon—truly looked? The sharp angles of his cheekbones, the protrusion of his spine and ribs—that could not have happened during a few short days of captivity, even if Fëanáro had starved him—which he might very well have done. The Elves had already prudently begun a fast retreat, and Melkor’s first priority was to get his wounded lieutenant back to Angband, or he would in truth have followed them. A pity. He did not think even a millennium of torture would be enough to repay Fëanáro for what he had done to the man in his arms.

Mairon’s hair had been clumsily cropped, and it was a mess of different lengths; his face was pinched with pain and cold. Gently, Melkor sliced through the ropes that bound him and reached for where his right hand should have been. The Maia whimpered and trembled, struggling weakly, and he stopped immediately. “All right, precious, we’ll see to it when we get back,” he murmured. “Ride out!” he called to the soldiers.

Everything seemed different. His time in Valinor—even his time in Mandos—seemed distant and far away. Instead what dominated his mind was Mairon’s desperate cries to let him fight in Melkor’s place, and farther back, his stalwart devotion, which did not preclude him from arguing loudly with Melkor at every opportunity. Except in the bedroom, when he submitted to anything that Melkor chose, without complaint. Melkor’s good hand twitched at the thought of pain inflicted on his lieutenant by anyone other than himself. He wanted to wring Fëanáro's neck.

The world was pale, but clearer than it had been in a long time. The loss of the Silmarils was a strange, hollow feeling in the center of his chest, but he did not regret it. Not when he could feel Mairon’s heart beating weakly against his chest, Mairon’s shallow breaths fluttering against his hand. If he had not given up the Silmarils, would he never have felt that heartbeat again? He tightened his arms around the slim figure.

Gothmog rode up beside him. “How is he?” he asked tersely. “Mairon?”

Mairon raised his head weakly at the sound of his name, but his eyes were glassy and vacant. He looked pitiful, terribly young and almost waifish with his hair badly shorn and the thin, delicate lines of his fana almost transparent. “No,” he rasped out in a voice that was barely audible. “No, no—I am not admirable.”

That cold fury rose in Melkor again. “He is hurt,” he said in a clipped voice. “We will return to Angband and heal him.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Thuringwethil, whom Melkor remembered as ever being hesitant to speak in his presence, now seemed to disregard all propriety in her concern.

“Yes,” Melkor said, stroking his good hand across the poor stubble remaining on Mairon’s head. “I swear it.”

~

The prisoner surfaced from a deep nightmare. He had been lying at the bottom of a well, while all around him were the bones of his troops—his friends. Above him blazed three white gems, with a burning light that contained all of fire’s destruction and none of its creation. And it was all his own fault, his own failure.

When he opened his eyes, his face was wet. He was being carried in strong arms through the halls of Angband, straight up the old path towards his former master’s chambers, where he had not been welcome since Melkor’s return. He looked about in some bewilderment, then looked up to see that Melkor himself was carrying him.

“No—I—what are you doing?” he demanded.

“I am taking you up to our chambers so that I may tend to your injuries, Little Flame.”

“Well, stop it,” the prisoner told him, realizing that he sounded almost petulant, but unable to halt the words spilling from his mouth. “My lord, I do not deserve your kindness.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Melkor told him roughly. “Stop squirming or I will drop you.”

“Please. I failed you. I should be imprisoned. I should be exiled. Why would you—” The brilliance of the Silmarils lighting up the glade. The pain on Melkor’s face as he tossed them away. “Your _gems_ , my lord.”

“ _Fuck_ my gems,” Melkor retorted. “I have my most precious gem here in my arms. What need have I for any others?”

Unable to contest this sudden, strange sea change and uncomfortable arguing when he had so thoroughly demonstrated his unworthiness, he subsided. Melkor gave him a worried look, but said nothing more. They reached the old bedchambers a few minutes later, and Melkor deposited him on the suspiciously dusty bed. Had Melkor even _slept_ since he returned, or had he spent all his time gazing at the three bright jewels that—that the prisoner had lost him? The flash of indignation quieted quickly.

Melkor summoned servants and told them to bring hot water. Then he returned to the bed. “I must look at the wound now, Lieutenant,” he said, stern and apologetic all at once.

“I am not—”

“ _You are Mairon the Admirable, the Lieutenant of Angband!_ ” Melkor cut him off, almost shouting, almost pleading, but the prisoner shook his head. “Eru, you have ever been the most stubborn—hold still.”

He took the prisoner’s wrists in his hands, gentle but firm, drawing them forward. The prisoner wanted to look away, but knew that he should not, for it was his own failure that had caused the ruin that he now saw. They had cauterized the injury with fire, but his own mind could not seem to remember that he no longer had that which he most needed, that without which he could no longer craft, could no longer be the creator that everything in him burned to be. Seeing the reddened, slick end of the arm was like seeing a hole in reality. It gave him a sense of vertigo. Beneath that, the arm was cold and stiff, and he exclaimed in pain when Melkor tried to unbend it.

“What is this?” Melkor asked. “Your arm is cold.” He ran long fingers along it, but the prisoner could barely feel them. The whole arm was numb and aching.

“Ungoliant’s venom.” Gothmog had entered. “My lord, there is hot water running to your bathroom now—Lord Mairon laid the pipes some years ago.”

“He was touched by the Spider’s venom?”

“Look here.” Gothmog pointed to the prisoner’s upper shoulder, which was discolored in three spots, an ugly greenish-purple almost like a bruise. “He took the injury for you, my lord. And he went to face Fëanáro still injured, to protect _you_. My lord.”

“As was my duty and my right!” flared up the prisoner.

Melkor groaned heavily. “Since when have you taken foolish risks at my behest instead of arguing me out of them?” he demanded.

“Since you returned and no longer wished to hear my arguments, my lord,” the prisoner replied simply. “Which is, of course, your prerogative.”

“Subservience does not become you, Lieutenant.” The prisoner opened his mouth to contest this and Melkor threw up his hands. “I do not want to hear about your disgrace or your failure! It is my choice to name you Lieutenant still!”

Rather sulkily, the prisoner subsided. He knew this was wrong. He could not understand how Melkor could not see it, but his arm was chilled through and he was too exhausted to keep arguing the point.

“Ungoliant’s venom.” Melkor frowned. “That is beyond my power to cure,” he said, finally, heavily, after a moment. “Gothmog—have you any thoughts?”

“We drove Her back with fire on Mairon’s command. Perhaps…”

“Fire. Yes. Perhaps. Few could survive such a treatment, but my Little Flame—” He kissed the top of the prisoner’s forehead. “You have the strength for it.” He turned to Gothmog. “Bring lava, not merely hot water.”

“Yes, my lord. I’ll return swiftly.”

The flame of the earth. The prisoner’s heart beat a little faster. Perhaps that _would_ heal him. Perhaps that would be enough to return to him what had been taken. And yet—he was afraid to hope. And he was chilled and shaking and miserable. The venom’s effect had not lessened since he had taken the injury; if anything, it had worsened.

Melkor stripped off the remainder of his clothes, brooking no argument. The prisoner turned his face away again to hide the tears as the bruises Fëanáro had left on his body were fully revealed. This shame, then, too, he would have to face.

“What is it?” Melkor cupped the prisoner’s face in his large hands.

“I’m sorry, master,” the prisoner whispered. No, he shouldn’t call him master, but what else _could_ he call him? “I’m sorry, lord.” Better. “He hurt me.”

“And he had no right to,” Melkor said darkly. “You are mine to hurt, mine to claim, mine to keep.”

“But…but my body…it still reacted. Even though it was n-n-not Your touch. Even though—” His face was still held. He could not turn it away. He could not turn away from this shame. 

Melkor’s hand trembled. “I should have killed him,” he growled. “I should have found a way to _flay_ him, gut him, harm him as he has harmed you—”

Mairon—the prisoner—sobbed. “It is my own failing, lord.”

A knock on the door. “We have the lava, my lord.”

“Good.” Melkor lifted the prisoner into his arms, gently—so gently. “Let us fill the tub.” Gothmog and two Orcs, helping him, carried in a heavy, steaming metal bucket. There were few who could have stood so close to the molten stone within it, and the heat of the earth was not where Melkor’s power lay, but he made no complaint, seemed only to be sweating slightly. He nodded and followed them as they went into the bathroom and filled the tub. The prisoner wanted to point out that when it hardened, they would have a terrible time cleaning out the stone tub, but he was too tired and too cold.

Melkor stooped at the edge and balanced him. “Does it feel—can you withstand it?” he asked. The prisoner gingerly put out a toe. The lava felt warm to him, like a blanket on a cold night, like his lord’s arms about him. “It’s fine,” he said, and Melkor helped him into it. He bit back a cry of pain as the chilly cold of his arm hit the heat of the lava and began to sizzle, pulsing in waves of chilly agony up to his shoulder and beyond it.

“ _Mairon_!” Melkor reached for him.

“No!” Mairon stopped him with a cry. “It _will_ burn you, my lord.” His teeth were chattering. “I’m all right. It’s just—it’s—” He could feel Ungoliant’s venom pulsing within him, retreating in front of the blazing fire about him. But it did not leave, it merely fled, turning other parts cold, sending agony ratcheting down his spine. It had been a long time since he had needed to return so closely to the earth, but there was no other choice, not if he was to heal himself as apparently was Melkor’s mandate. He did not think it would destroy his fana, but if it did—

He did not care. Before Melkor could move again, he took a wholly unnecessary deep breath and let his chest, shoulders, and head all drop beneath the surface. He heard the Spider’s bellowing cry in his ears, and then everything burned away in a fountain of pain.

~

The lava was boiling and steaming, an ugly black steam. Melkor stared helplessly, wondering if he should try to intervene. He had no doubt in his ability to prevent serious injury in himself, but he could not be certain that pulling Mairon out now would not result in more harm than leaving him. In the end, he paced back and forth for a time that seemed utterly endless, until Mairon surfaced again with a gasping cry and he ran to his side.

Mairon stumbled upright, lava streaming from his thin form. Melkor could see already that the terrible pallor of his arm had faded, replaced by a much healthier-looking flush. His hair had grown several inches, the mangled tips now hanging about his face in a way that Melkor thought was surprisingly endearing. But he could only watch with a sinking heart as Mairon lifted the stump of his right arm and stared at it, as bright golden tears began to trickle from his eyes and he sank back onto his knees with a heart-wrenching moan.

There were no words of comfort that Melkor could offer. His own hand, burned black at his side, ached, but that was of his own doing, and his hands had never been where his greatest powers lay. This was an injury beyond anything in his power to mend. He no longer even wanted to eviscerate Fëanáro brutally, for what would be the point? It would not return that which had been taken from his Maia.

And these sobs, these low sobs emanating from Mairon’s slim form, shaking him roughly like a leaf quivering in the wind, they were of Melkor’s doing. They were of Melkor’s making. This impossible brutality visited upon the most precious creation of Ilúvatar—he had brought it about through his own hubris and his own blind greed. “Little Flame,” he whispered, stretching out a hand.

“I am not!” Mairon wailed. “I am no one! I am nothing!”

And Melkor could do nothing but watch.

~

Days blurred together. The prisoner stayed in the room Lord Melkor bade him to. He ate when he was ordered to. He bathed when he was ordered to, although it was more common for Melkor to sigh and simply bathe him himself. It was distantly pleasant. He would have warmed the lord’s bed if bidden, but he was not so bidden, and he would not intrude where he was not desired. He lost count of the days quickly. Gothmog and Thuringwethil visited, telling him oddly pleasant little anecdotes. He laughed at their jokes, but the laughter seemed to be swallowed quickly by the strange, empty silence of a mind that did not know who to be any longer.

The days were growing warmer and the snowfall less frequent for the fourth time, when Lord Melkor stalked into the rooms. “This has gone on long enough,” he said tightly. “I am taking you to the forge.”

“Lord, no, please,” the prisoner said, tipping his head down. “I do not want to see what has been taken from me.”

“I am taking you to the forge and you are going to make a sword or a cup or a piece of jewelry, whatever you like, but I am not letting you out until you have made _something_.”

“I cannot!” There was anger in the prisoner’s voice, more than he had intended, more than he should ever display to lord and master. “I cannot, how can I? What would you have me do to forge _without a hand_?”

“Lieutenant, you are not only the most powerful of the Maiar, you are also the cleverest,” Melkor said silkily, bending down until they were face to face. “I would have you _figure it out_.”

“You’ll have to drag me there,” Mairon snarled back at him. “Because I will not go willingly.”

“Fine.”

“Melkor—” Melkor grabbed him easily, lifting him up despite his attempt to struggle, despite his angry response of heating his entire fana until it must have been painful to touch him. “Let GO of me!”

“No.” Melkor stalked angrily right back out of the room, and Mairon beat his fists against the lord’s back, at least until they walked straight through one of the main halls, and every single orc looked up from their meal to see the Lieutenant of Angband being slung about like an angry child.

“YOU ARE EMBARRASSING ME!” Mairon howled.

“GOOD!” Melkor shouted back.

By the time they had actually reached the forge, the prisoner had regained a little of his composure. He would—sit. He would wait. He would not look around. Melkor would have to release him eventually, particularly since he seemed so invested in the prisoner’s regular consumption of food. Melkor dumped him in the corner and stalked off, and the prisoner heard—as he had expected—the snick of a key in the lock.

He could melt the lock to slag and leave, but that would be to disobey the Vala who seemed to quite forcibly still regard himself as the prisoner’s lord. So he would not do so. He would simply sit here and wait to be released.

The sound of the fire crackling was soothing to his ears. It was not quite sufficient to lull him to sleep, but he had always loved that sound, and now he yearned to turn to it. He could not. The pain would be unbearable if he let himself see what he had lost. And yet—and yet, there was no one else in the forge. But the pain—

Since when had he been _afraid_ of pain? Angrily, Mairon forced himself to look. The forge stood there— _his_ forge, as it had since they had come here. It had been the first thing he had made in the depths of this fortress, and it was _useless_ now. No—no. _He_ was useless. Worthless. Robbed of his greatest gift through his own failings. And yet. The forge beckoned. An undeniable ache of longing uncoiled in his belly.

Mairon got up and went over to it. He could still use the fingers of his left hand. If he used his right as a brace, perhaps he could create something simple. He thought back to his first lessons with Aulë. A cup. Nothing intricate. It would only need to be melted, the metal poured into a mold and then lightly shaped. He would have to shape it with his left hand, but he could steady it with his right, or perhaps he could fasten it to the anvil somehow. His left hand was a little clumsier than his right, but not terribly much so.

He could not stop himself, not now that he had thought of it. The forge sang to him, and everything inside him, the entire fabric of his being, sang in response. Before his doubts could well up again, he knelt and got out a block of gold. Soft metal, easy to work. He dug through a series of molds until he found a simple one, cursing angrily to himself when he had to do each thing one at a time, because he could not easily hold two heavy things in one hand.

Melting the metal was as easy as it had ever been: he watched the crucible. His knowledge of when to remove it had not been harmed. Nor was it too difficult to open the mold when it was ready, although tipping it out proved to be slightly more of a challenge. Nonetheless, he managed it and found that he _could_ stabilize it. He worked for a while on shaping it and found that it was…doable. At the end of a few hours, he had a cup. It was not the best cup he had ever made, it was simple, undecorated—a child’s first creation in the forge. And yet—and yet—for some reason—he was weeping.

He made another cup. He made a bowl. He made a simple but extremely sharp, extremely powerful sword, breathing charms into it that would cut through an Elf before he knew he had been struck. Then he tried to make a more decorative cup, and he failed. Miserably. There was a tremor in his left hand he did not remember, and he could not force it to do the necessary delicate work. With a shout of rage, Mairon flung the half-finished thing against the wall. Still soft, the metal dented easily, caving in the side and wiping out most of what he _had_ managed to do in terms of decoration.

The door opened as he was standing, trembling, breathing hard and staring at those sad remains. “Mairon, are you—”

Melkor joined him swiftly. “A good first day’s work, Lieutenant.”

“It’s _terrible_ ,” Mairon snarled, not even caring how rude he was being. “A baby could have made these—” waving his hand over the cup and bowl, “—the sword is— _sharp_ —and that—” he gestured at the cup that still lay where he had thrown it, “is a _disaster_.”

Following his pointing hand, Melkor walked over and retrieved it, balancing it on one hand with a peculiar expression on his face. “This is an intricate design, Little Flame. A beautiful one.” It had been intended to show a creature rampant, a creature with claws and wings whose mouth spewed flame, the body of the creature hammered out, the head built of spun gold and protruding. Now it seemed half-melted, the dent having smashed the creature nearly in two, the flames unrecognizable.

“It should have been _simple_ ,” Mairon spat. “My right hand gone, my left hand full of tremors—the cup is ugly. Useless.”

Melkor set the cup down and took Mairon’s left hand between both of his, though the touch against the blackened scar tissue must have pained him. “You have been working in the forge for ten hours,” he said softly. “I imagine your left hand is simply a little cramped.” He turned back to the cup. “I can still see the design on that cup. It does not need to remain useless.”

“It is _broken_. And ugly.”

Melkor took a deep breath and pulled Mairon close, and for the first time in weeks, there was a humming tension between them instead of the prisoner’s doll-like compliance. And yet Mairon did not think he wanted to pull away. “It is not the cup’s fault that its creator threw it against the wall. I have to believe that it can be mended.”

“It will always be flawed,” Mairon said weakly. 

“Only Ilúvatar seeks perfection,” Melkor returned. Mairon turned away from him for a moment, not sure what he was feeling, raw and vulnerable as if he had been cracked open from stem to stern. Melkor—Melkor simply waited.

Somehow, it was that momentary patience that drew Mairon back to him, that drew him to press his face into Melkor’s chest and let those great arms enfold him in an embrace such as he had not felt since their first and worst defeat.

“At least let me try, precious,” Melkor whispered, and Mairon nodded, tipping his chin up to look at his master. “My lieutenant, my Little Flame, my precious.” Melkor kissed him deeply—and how could Mairon have ever thought that the Vala— _his_ Vala—would not want him, when it was so obvious how much he was wanted? How much he was _needed_?

A thought struck him. “Who has been organizing the patrols?” he demanded, then paused in concern. “Who has been organizing _everything_?”

“Ah, well, Thuringwethil offered and—”

“ _You let Thuringwethil organize my schedules_?” screeched Mairon. “By all that is _holy_ , what will she have _done_? Does that vampire even know how to hold a pen?”

“Well, we did lose one group of orcs who were sent in exactly the wrong direction, but we got them back after ten days—”

Mairon buried his face in Melkor’s shoulder and screamed, then felt the Vala’s shoulders shaking. He looked up to find that Melkor was laughing. “This is not a laughing matter, this is—how could you _possibly_ do such a terrible thing to my fortress!” Pause. “Your. Fortress.”

“Little Flame,” Melkor said, suddenly serious. “I would have done a great many more terrible things to our fortress in the name of bringing you home to me.”

And no matter how much Mairon had lost, no matter whether he would be able to regain it in the future or not—and now he could not know that—it was beginning to sink in that he truly did have his master returned to him. The cursed Silmarils were gone for good. Melkor _saw_ him again. Perhaps—perhaps he had not lost everything after all.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: HikariHellspawn did this AMAZING fanart for me! Look at it, isn't it beautiful: https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/455464216736956416/771958338485223444/IMG_20201030_232724.jpg


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